otello's profile

How shall I worship you? With rosaries made from penitent Tears? A temple built of my breath and my limbs? Let us not pray that our hands do what lips do, for I dare not Touch that pale ripening flesh, smooth as alabaster, With hands that quiver with anxiety. Rather, let me Enter the temple, kneel at your thighs, so I may Become the object of the All Knowing Eye; The Pink Vessel of Time, pink as the virgin sky At dawn. May it transport me back to my clever And pious childhood; a treasure that...

Canto II I long for long hours with you in the dust at twilight. Can you conquer my cowardice with sandstone and foam? Mix me with the salt and fire from your hands? Your red hair, red as the dust that made me, Burns through my brain, leaving a sensation Of scars and wishes that bring mischief at midnight. Could I lie hand upon hand, limb upon limb And let the devil in my loins be consumed By the angel in your eye? I pray the fire in your flesh Shall purge and pollute me with purity again and...

It starts with a spasm in the middle of the night, slight pressure on the skull in the morning, thoughts that tempt and escape, then a hunger pain that swells up from hour to hour. He is always tugging at my skin. The extra dust bunny hiding in my dress shoes; never worn. There is always space for him on my calendar, mostly weekends. A migrain every Saturday lets me know my payment is due. He is an anxious pimp; an Oliver Twist with a modest snicker and a lazy accent. He nudges me toward anot...

Clean air from the stars and dust, color the sky with a timeless shade of blue. The world slowly spirals downward into a brown bowl; the giants of the earth gather around and watch like naked limbs in twain, while pointing toward a maker, a quiet craftsman, a reason in the universe perhaps? We should hope so. The horizon reveals the secret of her intent. I hope she has something for me, wrapped in moonlight. These hot days come to lie down in the tombs of the desert The green hands of the sa...

I.   I need you like the morning gloom of June. Cleanse me with the smoke of your pipes and the sweat of a million faces. I want to move at the speed of stand still.   You are firestorm and flood; asphalt and anorexia. You are long lanes and landslides.   Kiss me with the hiss of tide and foam. and hold me with the hot hands of the Santa Ana winds.   Consume me with the brown waves that wash over valleys filled with new vices.   II.   Am I your heir, your fortunate child?   I arrived on a whi...